The GunCraven Files
by Oni Senpai
Summary: I’m not sure why I wrote this. It’s a nasty little tale and that’s all there is to it. Maybe I liked some of the sentences I got to write. There may be more at some point, but this is a standalone for now. Contains bloody violence.


"I'm still not sure," said one.

"He's been recommended to me on _very_ good authority," said another.

"I know his type. I don't like them. I mean who's he trying to impress."

"You can't deny his record."

"It's impressive, I'll grant you, but not spectacularly so. Give me a K-droid any day."

"Droid's can be hacked. Also there are… barriers. I am assured he can breach them."

"I'm not convinced…"

"What choice do we have?"

A pause before, "What's his name?"

"His name…? They call him… GunCraven!"

* * *

The cockpit was dark save for the few emergency lights tucked into ceiling cavities. Equipment lockers, control panels, monitors and screens filled almost all available wall space. In the centre of the floor was a man. His long legs were stretched out before him, his long coat spilled over the edge of the seat. Elbows rested on the arms of the high back chair, long fingers were laced under the chin of a face hidden in shadow.

There was a beep and a screen glowed as green characters began to scroll. Pictures flashed up, maps, star charts, video clips, sound bites; an entire encyclopaedia of information. A gloved hand lazily reached out and tapped a few keys with long fingers. The screen cleared save for one very large number. The hand moved as if to tap more keys, but it hesitated, the fingers flexing slightly. There was now a red glow from the dark depths of the chair.

* * *

Above a planet wreathed in churning red clouds was a starship. Its sleek contours were broken by arrays of jagged sensors and bristling weaponry. It slowly rotated to face away from the planet. Its engines began to glow, slowly coming to life. The outline of the ship shuddered and then the craft shot off, moving so fast it effectively disappeared.

* * *

Below a crystal blue summer sky, nestled amongst expanses of green foliage and private golf holes was a sprawling white mansion. It had a reserved, classically sumptuous look about it. It wasn't trying to make a statement; it wasn't an accessory. It was a home, just a very, very expensive home.

A giant of a man, crammed into a black suit and sporting shoulders on which you could easily park a bus, strode through the breezy halls. He daintily carried a small silver tray perched on the fingertips of one huge hand. A small pile of envelopes shuffled with each huge step. A curled wire that led from an earpiece down the back of his jacket collar also bobbed with each movement.

The man was already wearing sunglasses and didn't flinch as he stepped through a huge set of French doors and onto a shimmering white patio. Beyond stretched a beautifully manicured lawn and a pool that matched the colour of the cloudless sky. A deckchair was set up near the edge of the water, its occupant hidden form view. There was a small wicker table nearby, on which was a magazine folded back on itself and an almost untouched juice drink.

The man in the suit puffed out his massive chest, the buttons of his shirt straining, and approached the chair with a degree of reverence.

"You're post Mr. M…."

Before he could finish the words the man was interrupted by a gesture from the occupant of the deckchair. A ridiculously huge white gloved had rose into the air giving the thumbs up. Then a raised index figure indicated that another moment was needed before any further words should be said. Finally the finger was lowered to point at the small wicker table.

Hardly having to see the hand signals to understand the man in the suit bent and placed the envelopes beside the magazine, being careful to make sure the edges were nicely lined up. Then, tucking the platter into the small of his back, stood and waited patiently. He gazed across the grounds, trying not to eavesdrop on his employer's phone conversation.

"I'm telling you, Goof, he got so wasted that night… He was up on the bar doin' his song…"

There was a pause. The gloved hand stretched out and picked up the glass of juice. Squinting into the sun Mickey Mouse took a few thoughtful sips of his drink through a straw, a mobile phone pressed against one of his massive ears.

"Yeah, that's the one… 'I can show you the world...' I don't know how that charity thing next week is gonna top it."

There was another pause and Mickey began to bring the drink back up to his lips when something made him stop. The judder made some droplets of juice spill onto his vibrant Hawaiian Shirt. The mouse looked off into the little wilderness at the end of his lawn on the far side of the pool. Something had caught his attention… but what? He realised that there were no more words coming from his phone.

"Sorry, Goof, what were you saying?"

As his friend began repeating himself Mickey put down his drink and shielded his eyes from the light. He craned his neck trying to peer into the shadowed foliage.

"Really? All seven? Huh…" Mickey said as he absorbed some of the phone conversation. However something was really bothering him.

"Hey, Goof… I'll ring you back…"

Mickey didn't bother to wait a moment before ending the call. He began to rise from his chair, not taking his eyes of the gently swaying trees and the thick, flowery bushes.

"Something wrong, Mr. Mouse?"

Mickey looked up. The man in the suit was looming above him, his forehead, visible over his dark glasses, was creased with concern.

"Er… yeah," said Mickey, turning back to the garden. "Any news from the boys on the gate, Andre?

* * *

Next to a tall metal gate on the other side of the estate was a small hut. A window that faced the driveway was shattered, broken glass sparkling in the sunlight. Inside were two men, one slumped over a desk, the other sprawled against the back wall. Blood dripped and pooled on the floor.

* * *

"I haven't heard anything myself, Mr. Mouse," Andre replied

Mickey nodded distractedly. He was standing now and beginning to back towards the house.

"Minnie still in the studio?"

"That's right, Mr. Mouse."  
"Stay here for a moment would you, Andre? Watch the doors."

Mickey didn't wait for a reply. He dashed up the steps and into the house without a backward glance.

Andre murmured thoughtfully, tapping the radio transmitter tucked into his breast pocket. He stopped as he saw something that seemed so totally out of place in the summer vista that it momentarily stunned him like a blow to the head.

A man, tall and thin, was walking around the pool. He wasn't hurrying, but he was walking with some purpose. Armoured boots tapped on flagstones, a dark trench coat billowed behind him.

"Hrgh…" Andre began, but was still some way off fully gathering his wits.

The intruder stopped and drew out a pistol from the beneath the folds of his coat. It was a chucky pistol weapon with a huge and vicious knife blade slung underneath the barrel. With some effort Andre looked past this to the man's face; long, brilliant white hair partially obscuring the sharp features. One side of the man's mouth was drawn back by a ragged scar that stretched across his cheek to his left ear. It gave him the appearance of wearing a ghoulish lopsided smile. However Andre was transfixed by the eyes. One was a dark little pupil set into a clouded white ball; the other was a glowing, mechanical thing, all lenses and scar-tissue. Without hesitation GunCraven pulled the trigger.

* * *

"Up and step! Two and step…"

Minnie Mouse repeated the words under her breath and ducked and stretched in time with the music, mimicking every movement on the screen. Nearby a big orange dog lolled on inactive treadmill, droopy eyes looking on with only mild interest.

"Now turn… Left!"

"Left," Minnie puffed, swinging her torso anticlockwise.

"And right…"

"Right," she breathed and as she turned she caught sight of the dog sit and, ears raised and turned towards the door.

"What is it, Pluto?" Minnie asked. In reply Pluto barked softly, just as Mickey almost tumble into the studio.

"Mickey!" Minnie called, fumbling for the remote to silence the television. "What's wrong?"

"Come on!" said Mickey taking Minnie's hand and hauling her towards the door. Pluto leapt to his feet and followed his owners, growling at the odd behaviour.

"Ow!" she said as her arm was wrenched around painfully. "Stop it, you're hurting…"

The three froze at the unmistakable crack of a gunshot was heard from outside. Pluto raised his head and gave a single howling bark. Minnie and Mickey's eyes met, and together with Pluto they silently slipped back out of the door, darting deeper into the building.

* * *

A liquid gurgle escaped from deep within Andre's ruined chest. GunCraven watched as the man seemed to try and roll onto his back. He had fallen face first onto the paving, little droplets of blood had spattered about his head, evidence of his nose shattering. GunCraven decided to conserve his ammunition. He carefully stepped around the fallen body, casually sliding a fresh cartridge into his pistol. He ascended the shallow steps and sauntered into a high roofed, open room. Low furniture was strewn about in seemingly random fashion and he picked his way between it, heading for the corridor on the far side.

A noise ahead of GunCraven made him cock his head. He approached the first door that led out from the corridor with only the faintest hint of caution. He found himself looking into a studio that was crammed with personal gym equipment. Upon the far wall was a screen playing a fitness programme. He swept passed it, down the hall, disinterested.

A little further on was a T-junction. He took a left, the lenses of his right eye clicked and whirred as they roamed the floor, using a myriad array of pressure and infra-red information to trace a path of recent footsteps. Two set wove back and forth erratically, the gait short and jumbled. Here and there were marks on the walls and doors where those fleeing had obviously ricocheted along the passageway. The tracks turned abruptly right and GunCraven stopped in his tracks.

He was standing beside a wooden door. It was like any of the others in the hall, but this one in particular held his attention. Tensing he leapt into the air, throwing his long limbs wide to brace himself against the corridor's walls. Below him the door splintered as several shots tore through the expensive wood, slugs embedding themselves in the opposite wall. It was over in the blink of an eye. Nimbly dropping back to the floor GunCraven kicked open the remains of the door, hacking downwards with the blade of his pistol. The damaged wood buckled and fell into the room and GunCraven stood, pistol raised, in the now open doorway. Beyond was a study, photos and matched leather-bound books filling up row after row of shelves, a glass fronted cabinet with awards and framed certificates. There was also the wide antique desk with an open bottle of scotch and an unfinished glass. Mickey was standing nearby, a comically oversized, double-barrelled shotgun held in the crook of his arm. He had been in the process of reloading the rifle, grabbing new shells from a nearby open drawer. He was now rooted to the spot, his eyes locked on some point well beyonf GunCarven's head.

"You gonna finish that?" GunCraven said. His voice was low and earnest. Mickey's eyes dropped mournfully to his rifle.

"The drink," GunCraven corrected. "It'd be a shame to waste it."

Mickey slowly let the rifle's barrel drop downwards to point at the floor. It slipped from his limp grip to land with a soft thud on the floor. Then, very careful to control his trembling hands, he reached for the glass that rested on the edge of the desk. He brought the drink to his lips, spilling some of the amber liquid down the front of his colourful shirt. He licked his lips, placing the empty glass back on the desk.

"Whatever they're paying you, I'll… Please…"

"It's business," said GunCraven and shot Mickey Mouse in the chest.

Mickey staggered to his knees, eyes rolling back, and then flopped forward onto his face, blood staining the light carpet. He gave a single, little cough and then lay still. GunCraven stepped forward and, lowering his aim, fired three more time into Mickey's back and once into his head.

There was a very faint echo of the last gunshot heard in the distance. It lasted only a moment and then there was silence. GunCraven stood unmoving over the corpse. He slowly turned his head towards the well stocked bookcase. There were more delicate little sounds from his mechanical eye. His head twisted very deliberately across the bookcase, as if perusing the volumes stored there. His gaze eventually settled on the glass display cabinet. He moved to stand directly in front of it, looking for a moment at the things collected there; signed photos, framed newspaper and magazine clippings, even a golden statuette. Raising the pistol above his head the heavy blade made short work of the furnishing. Glass tinkled as pieces scattered over the floor. With another two lazy strokes GunCraven hacked at part of the uncovered wall. A large piece fell away, the thin wood a flimsy barrier against such a weapon. GunCraven put his head to the hole, looking into a room with bare concrete walls and sickly fluorescent lighting. In the middle of the room was a big orange dog, ears flat against its head and growling deep in its throat. Against the back wall, crouched on a sturdy crate, knees drawn up to her chest and tears glistening on her cheeks was Minnie Mouse. GunCraven grinned and in answer Pluto began to bark and Minnie Mouse screamed, shrill and loud.

* * *

"Well… What do you think?" said one.

"He is certainly… effective," said another.

"What's wrong?"

"Don't you think…? These pictures…"

"Yes?"

"They're a nice touch but…. Was _this_ really necessary?"

"She _was_ a target too."

"But why did he do _this_? He only shot _him_."

"A harmless hobby…"

"And the dog?"

"Artistic preference?"

A mirthless laugh, "I still don't like this GunCraven of yours."

"Shall I transmit the files regarding the other targets?"

"…"  
"Well?"

"Yes…"


End file.
